


say it with paving stones

by trailsofpaper (Sanwall)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 18:04:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8926879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanwall/pseuds/trailsofpaper
Summary: What if Les Amis de l'ABC had been a student organisation in May 1968? They'd be up on the barricades on the Night of Barricades.Enjolras believes in revolution, and Grantaire believes in Enjolras.





	1. l’appelle du vide

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally just a modern fic where Enjolras and Grantaire had angsty sex, but then I was like, hey, what if I stopped focusing on writing my thesis and wrote a historical au of Enjolras/Grantaire and Les Amis. That was back in May, and, uh... Well, I'm posting it now.
> 
> The title is taken from a slogan used during the student revolts of May 1968: "Je t'aime! Oh! dites-le avec des pavés!" which is translated as: "I love you! Oh, say it with paving stones!"
> 
> I might not leave this one up forever, so read it while it lasts (or download it and save it forever, I'm not the boss of you)

Grantaire will never forget the first time he stepped into the Musain, following Joly and Bossuet into the smoky warmth of the café that also served alcohol if you knew to ask Musichetta about it. He had nudged Bossuet in the side when they went up the stairs, about to make a snide remark about greasers when his eyes had fallen on the big table on the loft, and the man standing at the end of it.

Various mythological figures sprung immediately to Grantaire’s mind - this was Achilles, scowling in anger, but still radiating light like Apollo throwing his discus in sheer joy of the sport. Grantaire didn’t sculpt, but this man had features made to be chiseled in marble, and the tips of Grantaire's fingers itched with longing.

Grantaire had stumbled into a chair, glassy-eyed and mesmerized as Enjolras - angry, shining Enjolras - started talking about the unfairness of prohibiting political discussion on campus, and how to right the wrongs imposed by the university authorities and the government via structural oppression.

Foucault, away in Tunis, would have been proud, even though Enjolras would have resented being associated with him; a “structuralist  representative of Gaullist technocracy”. 

Enjolras’ words, not Grantaire’s.

“That argument is fallible,” Grantaire had replied, he can no longer recall to what. Enjolras’ brilliant eyes had turned his way, sparked with the challenge, demanding to know why Grantaire didn’t agree with him.

“It’s not that I don’t agree with the conclusion; I’m just saying that your argument is fallible,” Grantaire had repeated, and the following back-and-forth about the legitimacy of a logically formed philosophical arguments had somehow led to Grantaire denouncing Blaise Pascal, much to Enjolras’ chagrin. To this day Grantaire can never think about the dualism of body and soul without blushing a little.

And here Grantaire is yet again, listening as Combeferre argues for measures to dismantle the  massive  political bureaucracy that controls the university's funding to Enjolras, who listens with a forehead wrinkled in concentration. 

“This is precisely what they’re trying to do over at Nanterre,” Combeferre finishes, and gets a murmur of assent from the assembled group.

Grantaire takes a swig of his fourth beer, idly thinking about smoothing away the line between Enjolras’ eyebrows with the pad of his thumb. The idea makes him him cough into the bottle, which makes the rest of them turn his way.

“Something to add?” Joly asks, even though Bahorel is making frantic cutting motions with his hand in the air. Grantaire is about to laugh it away when he catches Enjolras’ gaze on him, dark and challenging.

Grantaire sets the bottle down with a clink, running his tongue against his uneven teeth.

“Like you’re so fond of pointing out,” he says, slowly and smilingly, “the system is corrupt. Why bother being complicit?”

“Know your enemies,” Enjolras says, a little too quickly. Marius laughs at that, and when Enjolras sends a quick smile his way, Grantaire kind of wants to throw his bottle at Marius’ stupid freckled face.

“Enemies?” Grantaire repeats, instead of resorting to violence. “You’re thinking very highly of yourself, if you believe you’re important enough to have  _ enemies _ .”

“It’s just an expression!” Enjolras retorts, with an impatient sweep of his hand and a growl to his voice that makes Grantaire’s stomach flutter. “The issue is an important one, ‘Ferre was right to bring it up.”

Grantaire gets a fifth beer, because it’s just easier to keep drinking.

~*~

In a kind of mockery of the formal address in the university, they all call each other by their last names, so much so that the first names have lost meaning. Jehan has insisted on his moniker, and Laigle’s loving nickname Bossuet is the exception that proves the rule. No one wants to remind Eponine of her family, so they let her be.

Marius, being kind of a late addition, goes by both names, but for some reason his last name has taken on a mocking quality,  _ Pontmercy, _ like he's a fool for going by it, while for the rest of them, their surnames are simply their names.

Grantaire signs his artworks with a capital R, because he’s never been man enough to resist a pun. The reason he joined this merry band of miscreants in the first place was that the name  _ Les Amis de l’ABC  _ made Grantaire chuckle, and who was he to deny himself what small joys he could find in life? Or at least that’s what Grantaire tries to tell himself.

The next time  _ Les Amis _ meet, Grantaire is in a foul mood. 

He’s not a very good student even at the best of times, but Nanterre seems to be on everyone’s lips, and nothing gets under Grantaire’s skin quite like the sentence “we should do something.” He  wants to scream at them  _ do it then, or rather, don’t bother at all _ .

He sits at his lectures when he feels like making an effort, but all he does is scribble his margins full of inky doodles, moving onto the soft skin of his underarms when the paper runs out of white.

Normally, when Grantaire loses focus like this, he has a couple of tricks up his sleeve.

He’s tried them all; pacing  around in his flat and listening to the battered radio he has by the window; smoking his way through a pack of cigarettes within three hours; absolutely exhausting himself with kickboxing; walking around Quartier Latin and Montparnasse, taking in the bustling city life and talking to strangers - but not even getting drunk on absinthe and cheap wine with Feuilly has helped.

The hangover is brutal, and Grantaire blames the pounding headache for being late to the meeting. 

He blows Enjolras a kiss when he saunters in, where he is in the midst of a discussion on economics and, probably, the spiritually enslaving nature of capitalism, with Combeferre. 

Grantaire can hear the exasperated sigh, and doesn’t need to watch Enjolras to know an irritated crease is forming between his eyebrows, and his naturally upturned mouth is thinning into a stern line.

Grantaire settles down, listening to Courfeyrac and Joly arguing for the absolute need of being allowed to let girls sleep in boys’ dormitories and vice versa, of how the sexual oppression is symptomatic of the political and spiritual oppression in the society of France.

“Finally, a worthy cause!” Grantaire says, and raises his glass to them both, and they cheer. Enjolras gives them an angry look, but says nothing: This is the moment where Eponine comes bursting up the stairs, short hair wild and dark eyes flaming, interrupting them all.

“They’re threatening to expel every student who participated in _Le_ _Mouvement du 22-Mars_!” she says,  whereby all of _Les Amis_ come alive in a burst of excited chatter.

The movement has been protesting the Vietnam War, as well as the proposed selective admission criteria for the university of Paris - a matter that lies close to the heart of   _ Les Amis _ . The agitation is palpable.

There are two exceptions to the calamity; Grantaire, who is staring at Enjolras, who is silent and wearing an expression Grantaire hasn’t seen on his face before.

His brow is still furrowed, a lock of blonde hair now curling across his forehead. His dark blue eyes are wide and lost.

It looks a lot like fear.

“So, time to pack up, then?” Grantaire calls, because Enjolras’ face makes something twist in his gut. His words have the intended effect though; Enjolras snaps to attention, eyes narrowing back to irritation as he says,

“No, Grantaire. This is precisely the time to take a stand. Show them that we won’t let them undermine the democratic principles on which this university is founded. The people will go with us.”

“The people will let you down,” Grantaire states calmly, fingers twitching in want of a bottleneck to caress. Enjolras clenches his fist on the tabletop.

“If you don’t think we can do it, why are you even here, Grantaire?” Enjolras says, this time quietly, and with a note of weariness in his tone. 

Grantaire shrugs. If Enjolras hasn’t figured it out by now, he never will.

“You can relax, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’re with you.”

~*~

Enjolras does not relax. On the contrary, he’s energized to the point of fervour, working tirelessly to mobilize the entire Sorbonne university to protest against the closure and the threatened expulsion of the students at Nanterre.

They can see him becoming more and more wound up, terse with anticipation and righteous anger.

Things come to a head one night when  Marius comes into the Musain, late, with a faraway look in his pale eyes and a dopey grin on his face. 

Grantaire can’t not tease him about it, and sure enough - Marius confesses he’s met someone by the name of Cosette, and who is the living embodiment of an angel, apparently.

Something ugly turns in Grantaire’s stomach, and to mask it he says, loudly,

“What, Marius Pontmercy,  _ in love _ ? Here, have a drink, tell us all about it!”

Marius blushes, damn him, and Grantaire shakes his head fondly while he pours him a glass of the bottle of wine he’s bought. Grantaire sips it to keep his comments to himself while Marius expounds on the amazing qualities of this Cosette, who he may or may not have actually met.

Then someone sits down beside Grantaire, and he can tell who it is by the beat his heart skips.

“I’m very happy for you,” Enjolras says  to Marius, “you’re welcome to bring Cosette along if you want, but right now we need to focus on making this demonstration happen.” 

Enjolras puts his hand on the table. He doesn’t bang his fist, he doesn’t shout; he just quietly commands attention by reaching out his hand in a wordless plea. 

Grantaire licks wine from his lips.

“If they expel _Le_ _Mouvement du 22-Mars_ ,” Enjolras says, every syllable carefully enunciated, a feeble attempt to mask the chilling fury in his voice, “they will set a precedent for silencing the voices of all students.”

“Then that’s a lot riding on this little demonstration,” Grantaire says drily, grip tightening on his glass. He can feel the rest of the group withdrawing a little; too used to their fighting.

“You’d rather we do nothing?” Enjolras retorts, and there it is, the familiar sneering curl to his mouth. 

Grantaire knows Enjolras despises him, and so he goes on.

“No, by all means, shout into the void if it makes you feel better,” he says, something wild unfurling in his chest. “But don’t expect them to roll over and let the students be just because you beat on a drum,and tell them about the downfall of democracy. They believe they’re acting in the best interest of the university, too.”

“If enough people speak up, they have to listen,” Enjolras says, conviction etched into the harsh lines of his mouth.

“ _ If _ being the operative word here, Apollo,” Grantaire replies, lifting his glass before quoting, ‘The tyranny of a prince in an oligarchy is not so dangerous to the public welfare as the apathy of a citizen in a democracy’

Enjolras balks. Of course he’d know Montesquieu. 

Grantaire grins, teeth on the rim of his glass.

“Be serious,” Enjolras says, with a voice low enough that his words are meant only for Grantaire.

“I am,” Grantaire replies. “Fiercely so.”

Enjolras does not look away.

 

It’s a real demonstration, Grantaire thinks. Joly and Jehan wave a banner that Grantaire painted; a stenciled woman who may or may not be based off of Eponine, raising a closed fist to the words: _Il est interdit d'interdire._ It is forbidden to forbid, because Grantaire could  never resist a good contradiction either.

Bahorel and Feuilly are wearing tennis shoes and biker helmets, Bahorel armed with an iron bar and Feuilly with a slingshot, as they walk in front of the rest of   _ Les Amis _ in case of the police getting violent. This is a trick Feuilly brought with him from all the times the workers had been brutalized in front of the factory gates. 

Enjolras is right behind them though, speaking into a megaphone so that all the gathered students can hear him. He’s not the only organizer; they can hear bursts of megaphone slogans and chants from other parts of the demonstrations, but Enjolras’ voice, even distorted by the funneled soundwaves, is the only one that doesn’t grate on Grantaire’s nerves.

If he thought about it, he would find it’s because he knows Enjolras believes in what he says, and so the mantras are given life.

“To be free means to participate!” Enjolras says, and it echoes off the buildings around them. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, always flanking him, repeat it until everyone falls in, repeating the chant.

Eponine gives Grantaire a playful shove, and Grantaire grins back, feeling something flutter in his chest. He might not believe in the ideals, but does it matter if he just repeats the words? He opens his mouth to let the fluttering out, when he spots someone out of place in the mass of young students - a mop of wild hair and a dark school uniform, so much shorter than everyone else that the gap between people was the easiest way to spot him.

“Gavroche!” Eponine says, but the boy deftly avoids his sister’s reaching hands, and grabs hold of Grantaire’s jacket instead.

“You got to clear out!” Gavroches shouts, tugging insistently at Grantaire.

“You should be in school!” Eponine protests, and Grantaire knows the sacrifices she’s made to be able to put herself through university; he knows how important it is to her.

“I thought we were protesting the oppressing educational system,” Gavroche says, giving her a grin marred by a gap in his row of teeth. Too young to be saying such things, Grantaire thinks. Gavroche might believe in their ideals just about as much as Grantaire does, but Grantaire at least realizes the dangers. Gavroche is young enough to believe himself immortal.

“Go back, right now!” Eponine demands, and makes a grab for him again, but Gavroche dances out of her reach again, bumping into Bahorel.

“The cops are coming,” he says, and that stops Eponine in her tracks, and both Bahorel and Grantaire stretch their necks to check if they can see the approaching  riot shields yet.

“We need to go,” Grantaire says carefully. “We can’t be thrown in jail.”

“I will not stand down,” Enjolras snarls, putting out an arm like he wants to stop Grantaire from leaving even if no one has moved away. “You  _ know  _ it’s wrong of them to expel the students.”

“This is not about ideals,” Grantaire snaps back, feeling the tension gather between his shoulder blades. He imagines hearing the heavy footfalls of boot-clad armed forces closing in on them; a ludicrous notion in the midst of a rally, drowning in noises as they are.

Grantaire breathes in through his nose and presses out,

“This is about living to fight another day. A tactical retreat to come back later, stronger.”

Enjolras blinks. Grantaire feels something turn in his stomach at the look - of surprise? - in his face.

“I swear I saw them, cars and all,” Gavroche insists, even though Eponine has finally grabbed a hold of his hand, scowling.

There is no reason to doubt Gavroche’s word, and Grantaire can see the moment Enjolras breaks;  _ Les Amis  _ abandon their banner and their megaphone to slip away in the cover of the masses.

They’re barely a block away when they can hear the chants turn into screams, the shrill noise of whistles piercing the air.

Grantaire knows he’s not the only one to notice the way Enjolras’ lips whiten in his effort to not burst with anger, and they all form a sort of barrier around him, as if they could contain him.

Combeferre puts a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder - to calm him or hold him back, Grantaire doesn’t know, and says, in a low voice,

“Maybe we should lay low for the rest of the night.”

“Let’s go find a party!” Bahorel cuts in, and half of the  _ Amis _ sigh while the other gives their wholehearted support.

Eponine quickly sends Gavroche on his way with a sharp word, even though he casts a sullen glance back at them. Grantaire gives him a wave and a wry wink.

Surprisingly, Enjolras is one of those proclaiming a party to be a good idea, and Grantaire is suspicious - Enjolras is never one for frivolities, but Grantaire can see that the tightly coiled energy in him needs an outlet, and dancing is a good alternative.

And so they make their way along the darkening streets of Paris, to a place called the Corinthe, which they frequent quite often. Grantaire found it for them ages ago; a nice little tucked-away place for them to let loose.

Light and laughter and music spills out into the street when a patron stumbles out to have a smoke. Marius stays and chats with the bouncer while the rest of them filter into the establishment.

Inside the atmosphere is welcoming and warm - the band in the corner making music just loud enough to make the people on the dancefloor laugh, but not so loud that it drowns out the murmuring discussions along the bar.

That’s where Grantaire heads, immediately, followed by Eponine. He orders them a shot each as well as two drinks,  and downs his shot as soon as they arrive.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire tells her, as they both watch Marius come in at last, rose-cheeked and laughing as Jehan welcomes him. Eponine shrugs and swallows her own shot with a grimace.

“It’s not as if he ever looked at me even when he wasn’t besotted with someone else,” she says evenly, but Grantaire knows the hurt that must throb just beneath her ribs.

He feels it himself, and he finds his gaze traveling to Enjolras on the dance floor, where the top button of his white shirt has come undone as dances with Courfeyrac, who is laughing uproariously. The air in the room is hazy with dim lighting and heat, which gives everything an almost romantic glimmer.

“Go dance, don’t stay here moping with me,” Eponine tells him, and gives him a look. Grantaire doesn’t know if she has misread his longing look, or if she is giving him a graceful out, but in either case he is grateful.

The two drinks arrive, and he grabs for his like a drowning man grabbing for driftwood, swallowing most of it in one go. Eponine makes a shooing motion with one hand, giving him the second drink with her other, smiling so wide her cheeks dimple.

Grantaire grins back, and saunters away with a drink in hand.

Call it liquid courage or momentary insanity, but Grantaire walks up to Enjolras on the dance floor, leaning in close to hand him the drink and whisper in his ear,

“Take it easy.”

Grantaire imagines something dark flitting over Enjolras’ eyes, but it might just be the play of shadow and light on the dance floor. Enjolras snatches the full glass from his hand though, and puts it to his lips, right there on the dance floor, leaving Grantaire staring at him. He can see Enjolras’ throat working as he swallows the alcohol, one stray drop glistening as it makes its way down the column of his neck.

Grantaire lets Jehan rope him into a dance. He grins at Jehan’s flyaway hair and intense gaze, even as he feels Enjolras’ glare burn its way into the back of his head

Grantaire used to dance, before his time was swallowed by studies and drinking and boxing. There’s a kind of primal joy in letting loose; letting his body being an instrument of something beautiful and joyous instead of the unshapely, ungraceful lump he usually feels he inhabits.

Doing a passionate if less than perfect Twist with Jehan has Grantaire laughing, almost forgetting the reason they had sought out the Corinthe to lose themselves in drink and dance. Drinks are put in his hand so often he loses count, and his spirits soar.

He’s reminded though, when he spots Enjolras’ out of the corner of his eye, slipping out of the door. Grantaire is the only one who notices; the rest of their friends too caught up in their fun - and Grantaire may be the only one so totally tuned into Enjolras’ presence in a room that he feels it like a gust of cold wind at the back of his neck when Enjolras leaves.

With the excuse of pulling out a cigarette, Grantaire leaves them to dance, and slips out after Enjolras. He spots him a short way away, leaning against the brick wall, head down and arms crossed.

Grantaire wanders over to him, leaving ample space between them where he puts his shoulder to the wall, cupping a hand around his cigarette to shield it from the wind as he lights it.

He takes a long drag, closing his eyes blissfully and allowing the smoke to cloud his thoughts.

The silence drags on, grows between them until it’s heavy with promise, and then it’s broken by Enjolras heaving a great sigh without raising his head.

“How do you stand to drink every night?”

The vague feeling of pleasantness that’s settled under Grantaire’s breastbone evaporates with the smoke pouring out of his nose as he exhales. The cold Paris night air is like a breath of too-fresh air, sobering him up too quickly.

“I don’t know, Apollo,” he says, with an easiness he doesn’t feel. “How do you stand to be clear-headed in the face of insurmountable odds every day?”

There’s a strange snorting noise, and Grantaire is shocked to find that Enjolras is laughing, head still bowed and arms still convulsively clasped together in front of his chest.

“I wasn’t being philosophical,” Enjolras says. “I think I need to throw up.”

Grantaire’s mouth drops open, and his cigarette tumbles to the street, a small, glowing comet in the darkness of the night.

He crushes it beneath his heel, instinctively, as he reaches for Enjolras, putting a hand on his arm. He has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the heat is coming off him in waves- Grantaire wonders if he’s had anything but alcohol to drink all day.

“Let’s get you off the street,” Grantaire says, casting a glance over his shoulders. The police will be roaming the streets, looking for excuses to grab students and youngsters off them. He gently manhandles Enjolras into the narrow alley behind the Corinthe, where Enjolras falls to his knees, oddly graceful.

Grantaire doesn’t like the short, heavy gasps of air Enjolras inhales after his stomach has emptied itself; he doesn’t like the way the veins on Enjolras’ bared forearms stand out as he braces himself against the cold brick wall of the alley.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras groans, and Grantaire sinks to his knees himself, their limbs almost tangled in the close space of the alley

“I’m here,” Grantaire assures him, reaching out to stroke a sweat soaked curl from his forehead.

“Why,” Enjolras breathes out, before breaking off as his entire body convulses in a dry heave, his back arching painfully.

Grantaire wonders if Enjolras ever meant to finish that sentence, but he stays with his arms pressed against the wall and head hanging pitifully down towards his heaving chest.

Instead of saying anything in reply, Grantaire gently massages Enjolras’ back in what he hopes to be a soothing gesture, waiting for this breathing to grow less ragged and the tension to leak out of his shoulders.

“Let’s get you home,” Grantaire says at last, when Enjolras makes no move to straighten up.

“Too far,” Enjolras replies, making an effort to lift himself up. “Too far from the university. I need to be...”

He breaks off in a groan as he heaves himself upright, and Grantaire is quick to scramble after him, to provide support.

Grantaire tries to swallow his heart when Enjolras leans heavily on him, fingers curling in his jacket.

“I need to be close, in case something happens,” Enjolras finishes, face half-pressed into Grantaire’s shoulder.

The words “Is my place close enough,” forces their way past Grantaire’s heart lodged in his throat, and Grantaire wants to take them back, but he can’t, not when he feels Enjolras nod against his shoulder, his grip tightening a little.

He’s not even sure Enjolras actually knows where he lives, but Grantaire has made this bed and decides to lie in it.

So Grantaire finds himself opening the door to his ramshackle little place with one hand while holding Enjolras up with the other. 

Then they’re in Grantaire’s small apartment, the wallpaper only covering one of four walls in the living room, the crumbling bricks lending the place an air of not bohemian charm but of unfinished squalor. Against the wallpapered wall leans a huge, blank canvas

Grantaire ignores it, all of it, and ushers Enjolras into his bedroom, which is right beside the door. He’s imagined Enjolras in his bedroom before, but not under these circumstances.

Seeing Enjolras so malleable and tired is a new experience, and Grantaire isn’t sure he can handle it, so he makes Enjolras drink a glass of water before Grantaire makes sure Enjolras takes off his socks, trousers and shirt, and tucks him into the bed so he lies on his side. 

Enjolras blinks sleepily up at Grantaire; a slow bat of long lashes.

Grantaire stops breathing for a second.

“I’ll be right outside,” Grantaire is able to say. He and leaves the door open by just a crack before he flops down on the sofa in the living room with a sigh.

The blank canvas reflects the light of the streetlamp outside the grimy window. It’s part of the reason why it takes Grantaire ages to fall asleep.

~*~

Grantaire wakes with a start, realizing there’s someone in his shower, the bad water pressure giving sputtering coughs. Last night takes a second to reassemble itself in his mind, but when it does, he groans.

This means that Enjolras will emerge from his shower any second now, and Grantaire is not rested enough for that.

He digs up a clean towel from the recesses of his closet (notices the way the covers are pulled over the bed, making the room look tidier than it ever has before) and dumps it outside the bathroom. Grantaire thumps on the door with his fist once, and says,

“Here’s a clean towel. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Grantaire doesn’t wait for an answer, but ambles into his little rundown kitchenette with a jaw-cracking yawn. He pushes a hand through his mess of sweat-dried curls and pulls out various banged-up utensils and rifles through his tiny cupboard for anything edible.

It looks bleak - the only fresh thing in his fridge is a bottle of milk, but thankfully there’s one egg left beside the packet of butter, so he sets about making pancake batter while his espresso maker hisses on the stove.

He’s in the midst of flipping his third pancake when Enjolras does emerge from his bathroom - mercifully clothed, rubbing at his wet hair with the towel. The hot water must have run out long ago; Grantaire can only imagine what Enjolras spent all that time in the shower for. He tries not to, though.

“Hope you can stay for breakfast,” Grantaire calls out, trying to act relaxed. He scratches the lining of his trousers, creased and uncomfortable after sleeping a night in them.

Enjolras stops dead in his tracks, head half-covered in  towel, one blue eye peeking out in bewilderment.

“Are you... making crepes?”

“Only thing I could make,” Grantaire confides, pouring the last of the batter in the pan, flinching as some of the butter fizzles and stings his bare arm where a droplet lands. “I don’t have any syrup or marmalade, so it’s honey or butter.”

Enjolras opens his mouth, but whatever he’s about to say is interrupted by the shrill whistling of escaping steam from the coffee pan. Grantaire turns off the gas with a practiced flick.

“Coffee?”

“God, yes please,” Enjolras mutters, letting the towel drop to his shoulders. Now Grantaire can see how bloodshot his eyes are, and the dark bags underneath them.

“How are you feeling?” Grantaire asks, trying to make his voice neutral. Enjolras gives his a suspicious glance, but accepts the proffered cup of coffee that Grantaire has poured hm.

“Better than I have any right to,” he replies, carefully. Grantaire laughs.

“Can we put on the radio?” Enjolras asks, looking around. Grantaire shrugs, flipping the last crepe with a nonchalant flick of the pan.

“It’s over by the wall,” he says, but regrets it when Enjolras walks over to the blank canvas, crouching carelessly by it to twist the old radio into life with one hand, carefully balancing the cup of coffee in the other. Grantaire is suddenly too aware of Enjolras’ presence permeating his little flat.

The radio comes to life with a burst of static, but Enjolras quickly tunes into his preferred station - a news report delivered in swift speech.

“Did we miss it or did they just decide not to mention yesterday’s demonstration?” Enjolras mutters and sits down on the floor, legs crossed, back hunched as he leans his elbows on his knees. “Goddamn state-controlled radio broadcasts.”

His head tilts slightly to the left as he listens to said state-controlled broadcast, and Grantaire feels a tug in his heart.

“Here,” Grantaire says and puts down a plate of crepes beside Enjolras after joining him on the floor. After spending the night, he’s had enough of his rundown sofa to last him a lifetime.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says slowly, giving Grantaire a surprised glance but nonetheless picking up the plate.

Grantaire wonders if he and Enjolras ever exchanged so many sentences without it turning into a debate before, but instead of dwelling on it Grantaire tucks into his honey-soaked crepes, foregoing cutlery entirely.

Enjolras turns the radio off, turning his attention to the wide expanse of white canvas instead. Grantaire hopes Enjolras won’t mention it, but of course he does.

“What is it for?” he says and nods at it. Grantaire avoids answering for as long as it takes him to swallow a mouthful of scalding coffee

“I, uh, thought I’d get some painting done,” he replies.

“I didn’t know you painted,” Enjolras says, a note of hesitant curiosity in his voice. A week ago Grantaire would have killed to receive this kind of attention from Enjolras; now it makes him uncomfortable.

It’s the calm before the storm; Paris is holding its breath, and Grantaire with it.

“I usually don’t,” Grantaire says with a shrug, rolling up a crepe and stuffing it in his mouth. Around it, he manages to say, “Paints are so expensive, I usually stick to charcoal sketches.”

Enjolras eyes him, with a mildly scandalized expression etched into his marble-like features. It suits him.

Grantaire sets down his plate so he can spoon a generous amount of honey over Enjolras’ remaining crepes, ignoring the noise of protest. “You try it. Food always tastes better when you eat it with your hands.”

Enjolras scoffs and wiggles his plate a little, but then he obediently rolls up the crepe, getting honey all over his fingers, before he brings it to his mouth to bite into it.

Grantaire regrets everything, because now Enjolras is  _ smiling _ , and Grantaire wants to lick the honey off his lips.

He pick up his coffee cup in a tight grip and wishes for a cigarette, but it’s raining outside and leaving Enjolras alone in his flat  is even worse.

It’s a relief when Enjolras finishes his coffee and gets up, carelessly licking the excess honey off his own lips. Like a gentleman, he brings his dishes to the kitchenette, and Grantaire wants him gone before he can tear apart his heart without even knowing about it.

“Thank you for the breakfast,” he says when he makes his way to the door. Grantaire goes to his kitchenette and begins cleaning up, just to have something to do with his hands. He blames the nicotine addiction.

“I need to go find the others, tell them we’ll have another meeting at the Musain tonight,” Enjolras says. “You’ll be there, right?”

“Of course,” Grantaire replies, trying for a smile, but he feels it turning out more like a grimace.

“See you at eight, then,” Enjolras says, opening the door, and it’s all Grantaire can do to wave at him from where he’s rinsing the plates.

As soon as the door clicks shut, he’s by the canvas, furiously sketching an outline with soft charcoal.

Grantaire has come to terms with his feelings for Enjolras, what Alfred Douglas had termed the love that dare not speak its name. It’s not that though; they all know Bossuet and Joly have a thing with each other and Musichetta, and all of  _ Les Amis _ is more than accepting - love is love, as Jehan puts it.

But Grantaire also realizes that his feelings are governed more by lust; the coveting of the unattainable that is Enjolras. He is safely on the pedestal where Grantaire raised him; but now Grantaire has seen him climb down, walked the Earth like a mortal, and the effect is devastating.

Grantaire could live with it when he thought Enjolras hated him. Now doubt is gnawing at him; Enjolras had seemed to enjoy his company, at least enough to share his breakfast.

Grantaire is fucked.

~*~

When the mood strikes, Grantaire usually works quickly. He’s already painting big blocks of colour on the canvas - none of his brushes are big enough, so he’s been using the palm of his hand, not caring that he’s getting paint all over his clothes, on his skin and in his hair - when there’s a knock at the door.

Grantaire starts, but does his best to wipe off the paint off on a rag he keeps for just that purpose, before he walks over to the door to open it.

“The police has occupied the university” Enjolras says where he stands on the other side of the door, expression unreadable, sphinx-like. Grantaire gets the distinct feeling Enjolras has been shouting; there’s a rough edge to his voice.

“I thought the meeting was at eight,” Grantaire blurts out, because he never expected Enjolras to find his way to Grantaire’s doorstep voluntarily. He regrets it because something in Enjolras’ face hardens, and he makes an impatient gesture.

“I wanted to talk to you about strategy,” he says. “No one knows the streets of Paris like you do.”

This is where Enjolras’ gaze drops from Grantaire’s eyes, and Enjolras freezes, eyes widening as if in fear.

“My god,” Enjolras breathes, and reaches for Grantaire. Grantaire flinches, but Enjolras grabs his hand, and it’s only now Grantaire realizes his hands are coated in bright red paints, splotches of it all over his clothes.

Enjolras pushes his way into the flat, door slamming shut behind him as he lifts Grantaire’s hands, the paint smudging onto his hands.

“Tell me this isn’t blood,” he says, eyes still glued to their joined hands. Grantaire can’t help but give an incredulous chuckle.

“It’s not blood,”  he says, and he tries for reassuring but somehow it comes out sardonic. Enjolras’ eyes snap back up to his, the blue alight with anger.

Grantaire tries to draw a breath, but Enjolras is so close, and for the first time Grantaire wonders if the tension between them isn’t sprung only from anger, but maybe also from attraction. They are opposites, after all.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” Enjolras orders, and Grantaire feels something bristle inside him at the command.

“I’m not going to make a promise I can’t keep, Apollo,” Grantaire says, the nickname falling off his lips as easy as breathing.

“Don’t call me that!” Enjolras snaps and Grantaire holds up his hands, slipping them from Enjolras’ grasp before something terrible happens..

“You’re making so many demands of me,” he says, trying for levity. “I thought you were for democracy, Enjolras.”

“Democracy does not ensure that anything is accomplished,” Enjolras quotes, and Grantaire’s treacherous body reacts by leaning in closer, his mouth parting in a surprised breath. 

“I need a cigarette,” Grantaire says to distract from it, but it comes out unsteadily, the waver in his voice making it into a question, and Grantaire hates it.

He also hates it when Enjolras puts a hand on his arm, and how helplessly he melts into the touch.

“In the interest of the people,” Enjolras says, gaze still intently focused on Grantaire. “Will you stop being an obnoxious twat for two seconds?”

“Make me,” Grantaire retorts. It’s not his wittiest comeback, but Enjolras’ grip tighten on his sleeve as if he’s been angered further.

It’s not as if Grantaire can’t read the signs, it’s not as if he didn’t get the opportunity to back away and pretend it wasn’t happening, but Grantaire is also powerless to stop Enjolras from leaning in, to stop himself from leaning into the kiss.

Grantaire has, on occasion, imagined what it would be like to kiss Enjolras. It would be heated, passionate, with an edge of desperation where teeth clash against lips.

This is nothing like Grantaire imagined it, however. Instead it’s a gentle, searching meeting of lips, wholly at odds with the fire in Enjolras’ eyes and the way Enjolras’ hand comes up to cradle Grantaire’s face. 

“I,” says Enjolras against Grantaire’s lips, “have wanted to do this since you cited  _ Spirit of the laws _ at me yesterday.”

“I wanted to make you angry,” Grantaire says, blinking dazedly at Enjolras, so close he’s out of focus.

“You did,” Enjolras replies, and presses closer, burying his hand in Grantaire’s hair. “I wanted to prove you wrong.”

“It is one thing to show a man that he is in error,” Grantaire tries, his hand coming up in turn, to cradle Enjolras’ hip, “and another to put him in possession of the truth.”

Enjolras stills against him, and Grantaire swallows.

Then Enjolras  _ growls _ , his entire body surging against Grantaire’s as he claims his mouth in a kiss that is more teeth than tongue, and Grantaire thinks,  _ yes, this _ , longs for Enjolras’ hands on his body.

His wish is granted at once; Enjolras pushes his other hand in under Grantaire’s t-shirt, the warmth of his pressing fingers searing trails into Grantaire’s abdomen.

Grantaire thinks he makes a sound into Enjolras’ mouth, which seems to encourage him because he grabs Grantaire by the hips with both hands and presses their bodies even closer.

Grantaire’s hands come up to bury themselves in Enjolras’ hair, seemingly of their own volition.

“Don’t you fucking dare quote John Locke on me, you bastard,” Enjolras murmurs, pressing a haphazard kiss to the corner of Grantaire’s mouth.

Grantaire lets out a surprised bark of a laugh, and in retaliation, Enjolras closes his teeth on Grantaire’s lower lip. His hands moves from Grantaire’s hips to dip inside the waistband of his trousers, and Grantaire’s breath hitches.

Before he loses his grasp on the situation completely, Grantaire decides to take back some of his initiative, pushing Enjolras’ broad shoulders until he rests with his back against the bare brick wall.

Grantaire doesn’t think, he can’t  _ think _ so he pushes his own hands under Enjolras’ shirt, leaving red fingerprints in his wake, pressing his fingers into Enjolras’ sides, thumbs digging into his stomach. He can feel every breath Enjolras takes, and it’s a heady feeling.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire kisses the shell of his ear before he leans back, meeting Enjolras’ gaze. His hair is wild, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes are dark. Grantaire can’t even imagine the look on his own face.

Enjolras’ words echo in his mind: _ I have wanted to do this since you cited  _ Spirit of the laws _ at me yesterday _ . But such witty citations have all fled Grantaire’s mind; all he has left is sincerity, and it scares him. He lets his hand trail down the buttons on Enjolras’ shirt.

“Can I?” Grantaire whispers, sinking to his knees without receiving an answer. Enjolras’ head falls back and his hands fall to the side though, and Grantaire takes it as permission. He undoes Enjolras’ belt with reverent fingers, leaving stains of red on the fabric of his trousers while opening them.

He hesitates, looking up, looking for approval. Enjolras meets his gaze, a lock of his golden hair falling over his eyes. He’s biting his lower lip, and he’s breathing heavily through his nose, the sound almost too loud in the otherwise silent room. 

Grantaire pushes the clothes halfway down Enjolras’ thighs and, oh, he’s hard already, and of course his cock is beautiful, thick and darkened with arousal. He can’t touch Enjolras with his hands - the paint is still not completely dried - but he presses a kiss to the smooth, warm length of him. Enjolras makes a painfully soft sound, and his hands land lightly on Grantaire’s shoulder, which is all the encouragement he needs

Grantaire wants to make it slow, he wants to tease and draw it out but he finds he can’t. He’s recklessly gone, and he swallows Enjolras down so far that his nose is buried in dark hair at the root. He swallows around Enjolras, wishing desperately to taste him even as he feels the tip of his cock at the back of his throat.

Enjolras clenches his fists where they rest on Grantaire’s shoulders. Grantaire’s own hands come up to grip Enjolras’ thighs, feeling the muscle bunch under his palms. Grantaire loves the feel of them even through the layers of drying paint on his hands; the coarse hair and the solid anterior muscles. He digs his fingers in while hollowing his cheeks around Enjolras. Grantaire can feel Enjolras’ knees buckle a little.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras murmurs, and Grantaire’s own cock stirs at the sound of his name. He wants to hear more, he wants to hear the broken note to Enjolras’ voice every day for the rest of his life, but he’ll settle for just today. The weight of Enjolras on his tongue is bittersweet and heavenly.

He never thought he could have this much.

Grantaire draws back a little, laving at the head, and Enjolras groans as his hands curl loosely around Grantaire’s neck. Licking a long, wet stripe along the length of him, Grantaire lifts his head enough to lock eyes with Enjolras and say,

“Touch me.”

Enjolras inhales sharply through his nose and buries his hands in Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire has to close his eyes, because the way Enjolras presses his fingers into his scalp is too much. Grantaire’s hands on Enjolras’ thighs clench in turn, and taking Enjolras fully into his mouth again feels like home.

Grantaire wants to do this forever. He wants Enjolras to never come, but Grantaire swallows it down eagerly when he does. Enjolras lets out a quiet moan, releasing the grip  on Grantaire’s hair as he sags back.

Grantaire paws weakly at Enjolras’ trembling legs before he sits back, stretching out his own legs to alleviate the dull ache in his knees.

It’s like the world is spinning; Grantaire doesn’t even dare to look up for fear of what he will see, and then, suddenly, Enjolras is on his knees beside him, centering him with an arm around his waist.

Before Grantaire can even say anything, Enjolras has his hand down his trousers, and his lips on Grantaire’s neck, and Grantaire’s leg twitches with the surprise of it - he can’t hold it in.

“Apollo,” Grantaire says, breathlessly, hands twitching to grasp Enjolras’ arms, reveling in the feeling of having Enjolras close, feeling his warmth through the fabric of his shirt.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says into his collarbone, and Grantaire lets out breathless whimper, bucking helplessly into Enjolras’ firm grip. Heat pools in Grantaire’s gut, Enjolras’ touch too much and not enough at the same time.

Grantaire presses his face into Enjolras’ shoulder, clawing at his back, as he groans with his climax.

A silence punctuated only by their heavy breathing falls over them, and Grantaire blinks.

“I thought you wanted to discuss strategy,” he says, can’t help but smile into Enjolras’ shoulder as he does it.

Enjolras starts, removing his hands, and this was not what Grantaire had intended with his words.

“I’m sorry.” Enjolras starts to get up, and Grantaire watches helplessly as he rights his paint-stained shirt and dusts off his trousers. “You’re right. I did actually mean to ask you some questions before the meeting.”

Grantaire sighs, leaning back on his hands, spreading his legs.

“I hope,” Enjolras says, but he stops in the middle of the sentence, the unsaid words hanging in the air like the sword of Damocles. Grantaire grins, aware that his eyes must be glassy and his hair unruly.

“Do you want some more coffee?” he asks. He’s on safer ground, offering Enjolras that, rather than his heart.


	2. raison d’etre

If any of   _ Les Amis _ notice anything amiss in Enjolras’ behaviour, they probably chalk it up to his usual fervour - Grantaire watches him from his usual spot just outside the circle of friends in the Musain, and Enjolras is practically alight with passion as he confers with Combeferre on the situation and gesticulates wildly.

Grantaire wants to take credit for Enjolras’ energy, but he knows this is all Enjolras himself; he carefully scrubbed out the red paint that had gotten stuck in his golden curls, and no one seems to have noticed the strips of red paint on his shirt, near the hem where it covers his red-smeared fly.

Grantaire gets up to pester Musichetta about spiking his coffee with maybe some cognac. He’s not picky; he’ll take cheap brandy if that’s what she'll offer.

Musichetta sees him coming from a mile away, sighing as he perches on the barstool, leaning his head in his one hand and doing his best impression of a winning smile as he scoots his half-emptied coffee cup in her direction.

“Don’t you have a revolution to plan?” she asks drily, but is already reaching below the counter for the bottle.

“I already helped our fearless leader to make up a stratagem,” Grantaire confides, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, lest someone take his words seriously.

“Oh, fuck off,” Musichetta says with an eyeroll. “Your fancy words don’t have any effect on me, R. I’m not fighting your fight.”

“I’m not sure I am fighting our fight either,” Grantaire says airily, watching intently as Musichetta pours a finger of actual real armagnac,  Baronne Jacques de Saint-Pastou , if Grantaire isn’t mistaken. He could never afford it on his own, but Musichetta has a soft spot for strays like himself, so she lets him have some on the unknowing house most of the time.

Grantaire grasps his cup eagerly, bringing it to his mouth with a relieved sigh. The faint burn of alcohol marks his tongue and throat, but settles warmly in his stomach and stills his shaking hands.

He smiles at Musichetta, who straightens up, shaking her head.

“You know you have a problem, darling, don’t you” she says, not unkindly, and Grantaire nods.

Of course he knows.

He’s not sure he cares enough to do anything about it.

Grantaire’s eyes find Enjolras, where he is speaking animatedly at a subdued Marius, the rest of  _ Les Amis  _ amused spectators like Grantaire.

Feuilly opens his mouth, and Enjolras’ attention shifts to him so fast Grantaire wonders if his neck is hurt by whiplash. He lingers a moment on the thought of massaging the knots in Enjolras’ shoulders, the ones he undoubtedly has. He’s trying to carry the world on his shoulders, like an Atlas that refuses to be passive.

“There’s talk about a solidarity strike amongst the workers,” Feuilly says. Enjolras straightens up, as if trying to make himself taller.

“The UNEF is probably organizing a march in two days time,” he says. “We must get the students and workers to unite.”

All chatter has subdued; Enjolras has that tone. Grantaire knows it well. He’s about to deliver a speech.

“We have run once,” Enjolras says, firmly, but there’s a wavering tone to his cadence that sets Grantaire’s heart aflutter. Enjolras’ hands remain impassive at his sides, but this somehow only serves to emphasize his words. “We abandoned the fight yesterday, we let our comrades get arrested in our place, so we must make this count.”

He looks around at the assembled faces, his gaze even darting to the side to catch Grantaire. Grantaire looks down in his cup, rather than meet the furiously sincere look on Enjolras’ face.

“We, my friends, have the chance to change the course of this country, and we must seize it.”

Courfeyrac is the first out of his chair to clap Enjolras on the back, laughing while pleading his loyalty to the cause. Combeferre is next, pushing his glasses up his nose before pushing back his chair, enveloping both Enjolras and Courfeyrac in a hug. The rest pile on, one by one, laughing and shouting as they all touch Enjolras.

A benediction, Grantaire thinks wryly, but for them or for Enjolras?

~*~

The streets of Paris are still in uproar - Grantaire feels it like a buzz under his skin, and the alcohol buzzing in his head. Radicals, the newspapers say, have occupied   the administration building and hold a general assembly. The police surrounding Nanterre is closing down the university.

It’s not especially warm out but  _ Les Amis _ join the  _ Union Nationale des Étudiants de France _ in their march, and among the press of bodies the temperature rises palpably as they walk together, talking in between picking up the chants, the calls moving up and down the column of people irregularly. 

Grantaire does not join in on the chants. He drinks from his flask instead.

He notes that young Pontmercy does not march with them, and he does not blame him. Maybe Marius feels, like Grantaire feels, that they’re marching towards their doom and not towards freedom, like Jean Prouvaire’s banner is proclaiming in beautifully curved letters.

Everything Jehan puts down in words turn beautiful, Grantaire muses as he jumps over an overturned trash bin, barely managing to not jostle the people around him. The image of beautiful slender Jehan, with his long hair and flowing clothes, the perpetual blush that stains his cheeks, shining through translucent skin, in unforgiving metal cuffs, being hauled by masked, imposing policemen off to an unknown fate, is unwelcome.

So is the notion of Bahorel, being brutalized by the police because he could put up a physical fight; Feuilly knowing how to avoid arrest but refusing to abandon his friends - both of them march along the edges of the procession, proctective.

Bossuet being trampled by a panicking mass of people, Joly’s laugh cut short by a misaimed stone, or any of the other things that could go wrong - Grantaire shudders.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the logic and the center to Enjolras’ passion, seem to follow blindly. Grantaire knows it isn’t so, but he still resents them for going so willingly, for sacrificing themselves on Enjolras’ altar of democracy. Both of them are a few steps ahead of Grantaire, their heads pushed together in discussion.

Grantaire’s stomach is churning with all the dark possibilities, and for what? What do they imagine they could do, waving their banners, standing proud, shouting their slogans? They call for a better France, but France has turned her back to her young sons and daughters; Grantaire doesn’t care, he doesn’t care for himself, but he cares for them. And they keep walking.

Later, Grantaire can never recall the moment the protesters clashed with the police, these ever-looming threatening figures behind their riot shields. Grantaire can only remember the spire of the Sorbonne rise hazy out of the tear gas cloud in the distance.

He remembers the way the police started swinging their batons, seemingly erratically, frantically mowing down students and teachers, the protesters,

Feuilly, with his slingshot, sends off a stone that bounces off the helmet of a police, but the man goes down nonetheless. Combeferre tells him to stop; that they need to find shelter.

He is right; when Grantaire jumps atop a bench lining the street and cranes his neck he sees that the way to the university is blocked by uniformed men in rows, by their huge vans - every road, street and even alleyway barricaded. The protesters move out of the way of the onslaught of the batons and fall back, but they do not disperse. The police are unwilling to leave the safety of their vans and cars, out on the mercy of hailing stones and slurs.

Grantaire sneers and steps back down to merge with the milling crowd, because he recognizes himself in the way they cower back to their stronghold. Eponine takes his place on the bench, stepping up to balance one foot on the backrest, and she yells,

“Tear gas!”

They all manage to wrap scarves or shirts around their faces and run in the opposite direction before the worst of it hits them. Grantaire is useful, for once, screaming himself hoarse behind his pulled up t-shirt to get the attention of  _ Les Mis  _ to lead them away and into a small side street away from the big crowd that grows wilder by the second.

Dusk is falling, hardly recognizable now that the birds have taken flight, and the streets of Paris are filled with the noise of screaming and crashing things. Grantaire finds that he is sweaty and out of breath, feeling filthy in a way he doesn’t even when he’s covered in charcoal or paint, not having showered for days. The air smells acrid; like smoke and iron.

“What do we do?” Bahorel asks, voice small in the too-silent alley where their breathing is exacerbated by their proximity to each other. “They’ve barricaded the university.”

They turn to Enjolras, every single of them, even Grantaire. Like flowers turning towards the sun.

“We build barricades of our own,” Enjolras says, without the least hint of hesitation. He allows no one else the luxury of hesitance either, because he strides out of the alley, back straight, as if he assumes the rest will follow.

Which, of course, they do.

Enjolras plows through the milling crowd, people automatically giving way to his commanding gait. He walks right up to an old car, an old, black Renault with a missing tail light, and puts his hands to it to push.

It doesn’t budge, even under his straining muscles, but Bossuet is the first at his side, putting his hands to the metal. Joly, bless his frail frame, puts his shoulder to it as well

A uniformed officer shouts at them, a pair advancing through the mass of people. Feuilly and Bahorel take up position and starts hurling stones at them - Eponine joins them, her aim more accurate without the helmet constricting the view. The police decide to find easier targets.

Grantaire, feeling unsteady, alcohol still coursing through his veins, hunches down to try to lift the car while the rest of them push

Combeferre sees his struggle, and produces a broken-off street sign with a pole long enough to use as a levy, and together they finally manage to tip over the car, which settles on the cobblestones with a heavy, metallic groan.

All the while people move about them, the spectre of the police haunting them, the Friends of the ABC manage to pivot the car so it blocks part of the street.

“A barricade!” Enjolras shouts. “We are building a barricade!”

Grantaire wants to laugh at him, but he finds he can’t - the people about them start to follow their example.  Grantaire witnesses as Enjolras and Courfeyrac organize the protesters into an efficient chain, hauling wood, rocks, anything that could be used to build a barricade, while Eponine is directing some in keeping the police at bay while they do so.

It is nightfall by the time Gavroche appears, bumping into the back of Grantaire’s knees and almost sends him careening. He regains his balance, but only barely, and glares down at the boy, still dressed in his school uniform even though it’s unbuttoned and dirtied by god knows what.

“What?” Grantaire says irritably, because his hands are shaking and his hipflask has long since run dry. “You couldn’t have brought me a bottle, Gav?”

“We’re building barricades all over,” Gavroche informs him, keeping an eye on his sister where she’s directing her artillery of stone-throwers to make sure she doesn’t spot him. “The cops don’t know what to do. They can’t get any backup now.”

“That’s good,” Grantaire says, and scratches the back of his neck. It still prickles. 

“Yeah, but they’re bringing out the tear gas again, I reckon,” Gavroche says with a knowing sniffle and puts his small hands in the pockets of his pressed shorts.

“Fuck,” Grantaire says, looking wildly around him to locate the others. His gaze falls, unsurprisingly, on Enjolras.

Like a beautiful, invincible and absolutely idiotic god he stands atop the barricade, wild curls blowing about his face as he cups his hands around his mouth to make his words heard, because his megaphone has long since been lost, probably part of the makeup of the barricade.

Like Baldur, willingly making a target of himself. 

Grantaire doesn’t want to wait for the arrow of mistletoe to strike him down, so he hurries over, stretching out a hand to grasp the short hem of Enjolras’ Hussar-style red jacket.

“Apollo!” he shouts, to make himself heard above the din and grab Enjolras’ attention. He’s still unprepared to get it; he stumbles when Enjolras gives in to his pull, stepping down and focusing his intense gaze on him.

“Are you drunk?” Enjolras says, and he must smell it on Grantaire’s breath this close, and Grantaire shows his uneven teeth in a grin. 

“How? We’re fighting a war, Grantaire!”

“So I’ll breathe them to death,” Grantaire says, unable to keep the mocking tone from his voice. “They will teargas us any moment now, we better leave before they get us on our knees and have us arrested.”

“I won’t run!” Enjolras says, chin jutting out stubbornly. He doesn’t notice how the rest of  _ Les Amis _ automatically come to his side, evidently noting the urgency in Grantaire’s body language even if Enjolras doesn’t.

“Tear gas,” he informs them, and they immediately catch his meaning - they start to sweep their faces in cloth, and the people around them start to follow their example.

This is when Eponine sees them, and by extension, Gavroche. She doesn’t shout or scream, she just hurries over, placing herself before him with her arms crossed.

“I told you to stay out of this,” she says sternly.

“I was,” Gavroche protested, “but all the lycées are protesting too, I had to go with them to teach ‘em how to act and not get arrested and shit like that.”

Eponine shoots Grantaire a furious look, like it’s his fault her little brother has picked up foul language.

“But I told them to scatter when I saw the cops bring out the tear gas,” Gavroche continues, now crossing his own arms. “But I won’t scatter until you do it too!”

A silence falls among the hubbub by the barricade,  _ Les Amis  _ turning their eyes to Enjolras, who, even though they advocate democracy, always has the last word.

And, under the soulful gaze of a young boy, Enjolras breaks.

“We won’t let them win,” he says. “We’ll avoid the tear gas and the arrests so we can come back at dawn.”

 

They don’t come back at dawn. Instead they gather at the Musain, talking excitedly over each other as they try to draw up battle plans - as Bahorel had put it with a laugh. Grantaire isn’t laughing. He doesn’t want to see batons wielded or stones hurled anymore.

He comes into the Musain half a step behind Enjolras - the air between them is electric, or so Grantaire imagines, because last night, after the Friends had gone their separate ways, Enjolras and Grantaire had come together in a secluded alleyway where the trees of the intersecting boulevard hid them from view and whispered against the roof with newly-sprouted spring leaves.

Enjolras had grasped Grantaire like a man possessed; growled into his mouth, and Grantaire had submitted willingly, giving Enjolras the release he sought.

“What were you thinking?” Enjolras had demanded, even while panting into the skin of Grantaire’s exposed throat. Grantaire worked his hand into Enjolras’ trousers, drinking in the sight and feel of him so radiant in his passion and anger,  _ so alive _ and Grantaire selfishly thought he would endure a thousand revolutions if he could only keep Enjolras.

“You’d say it was better to die on your feet than live on your knees,” Grantaire had grinned and closed his teeth on Enjolras’ earlobe.

“ We, ah, have it in our power to begin the world over again,” Enjolras had gasped, and Grantaire would wade through seas of red just to hear Enjolras quote 18th century political activists with that desperate edge to his voice again. 

Grantaire had laughed, giddily, and Enjolras had pushed his shoulder, grinding it almost painfully into the brick of the alleyway.

“I need you to have your wits about you,” Enjolras had forced out between gritted teeth, and Grantaire would have let the comment sting if he wasn’t in the process of unravelling Enjolras entirely in the cover of the night.

Grantaire knew it was wholly destructive of him to give into his desires like this, but he also knew he had an addictive personality; he had drunk from the well and would return to it anytime he could.

Never mind that Enjolras allowed him to indulge for different reasons than Grantaire would wish.

Now they stand, not shoulder to shoulder but almost, in the Musain, Grantaire’s hands trembling with hangover - or was it withdrawal? and Enjolras standing steady, infallible like sunlight.

“I’m the first to agree that  those who make revolutions by halves do but dig themselves a grave,” Enjolras begins, the corner of his mouth turning up in a wry smile at the slogan he quotes. “But as yesterday proved, we have the people with us. We can afford to make plans, come together again stronger than before.”

An almost deafening cheer rises among the Friends, and Grantaire wants to ask for a toast, any excuse to wet his suddenly dry throat with alcohol.

So he ducks behind the bar, because Musichetta is not there, to pilfer the bottle of Armagnac and proceed to pour them all a generous glass of amber liquid.

“Give me liberty, or give me death!” Grantaire exclaims, raising his glass. They raise theirs, acknowledging his words with laughs and nods and winks. Enjolras is the only one who does not sweep his glass, but meets Grantaire’s gaze steadily - the only one to read the actual meaning of Grantaire’s quote.

This will bring liberty, or this will bring death.

“You said once,” Enjolras murmurs to Grantaire, later, when Combeferre and Feuilly are discussing strategies so loudly that everyone’s attention is on them, “that you don’t believe in liberty.”

Grantaire gives him a joyless smile.

“I don’t,” he says, lighting his cigarette because the bottle is empty. “Just like I don’t believe that marching on the streets will bring it.”

“Then what do you believe?” Enjolras asks impatiently, eyes demanding an answer.

Grantaire seldom does as he’s bid. He puts the cigarette between his lips, and puffs out a cloud from the corner of his mouth.

“All I know is love, Apollo,” he says, and the impatient huff of breath Enjolras gives is expected.

 

Later,  _ Le Monde  _ reports that it all began thusly:  _ 4:30 pm Friday the high-schoolers assemble at the Gobelins metro station at the call of the “High School Action Committees,” which had already organized strikes and marches in Paris and the suburbs that morning and the day before. _

It even denotes the beautiful weather and how “the atmosphere is relaxed and even joyous.”

It isn’t until “ _ 9:15 pm” that the first barricades go up at Rue Le Goff: a few cars, publicity panels, fences around trees, paving stones. The barrier, which quickly rose up, will set the example. The young people who “go to the front lines,” taking position across from the police positioned around the Pantheon and the Sorbonne, will find here a reference point as well as a way of filling in a prolonged wait that is, and will also make tangible their desire to “occupy” the heart of the Latin Quarter. Barricades quickly go up on Rues Royer-Collard, Saint Jacques, des Irelandais, de l’Estrapade, at the corner of Rues Claude Bernard and Gay Lussac, and at the junction of Rues Saint Jacques and Fosses Saint Jacques. _

They’re there, of course,  _ Les Amis de l’ABC,  _  standing among the barricades; they had been stopped from crossing the River Gauche, and in protest they aided in raising barricades. The friends are perched on the barricades, sharing cigarettes and passing Grantaire’s flask around. Joly sings something quietly to himself, and Feuilly taps his foot to the melody.

The Sorbonne is still occupied by the  _ Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité _ .

Eponine has produced a battered radio. They hear the rector of the Sorbonne say he’s ready to receive the representatives of the students to talk about the re-opening of classes. They hear the leader of the March 22 Movement call for _sang froid_ , to keep occupying the Latin  Quarter without attacking the police.

Bahorel scoffs, and Joly pushes him playfully. Bossuet grabs Joly to give him an impulsive hug, infected by the easy atmosphere that envelops them all. There has been no sighting of tear gas.

Jehan is scribbling on Courfeyrac’s arm, because he has no paper and inspiration can apparently strike in the most precarious situations. Grantaire smiles; he recognizes Jehan’s fervour. He himself is itching to jot down quick sketches of the things going on around him.

Enjolras stands on the barricade atop a broken shelf, the last rays of the sunlight making their way over tall buildings turning his hair a vibrant gold. His military coat gives him an elegant bearing, and Grantaire would like to call his countenance royal, mostly because it would cause his dark eyebrows to lower in disapproval and mouth to thin into an angry line.

Eponine slaps Grantaire’s arm, snapping him out of his reverie, and points over the silhouette of a bulldozer in the distance.

“They’re getting reinforcements,” she says, and Grantaire can see the police vans flanked by uniformed men come closer. The mood changes around them as people notice; some slip away, much like  _ Les Amis _ had done three days ago, some gather in groups to whisper among themselves, and some, like Enjolras, climb even higher on the barricades.

Grantaire keeps looking at him, even when he helps Bahorel and Combeferre to pry loose paving stones to stack as a reinforcement of the barricade. Courfeyrac and Jehan is a distance away, organizing the human chain by way of encouraging chants. Despite everything, they’re doing their best to keep it peaceful, even in the face of onslaught.

Grantaire breathes out a puff of air into the night, reaching for another cigarette. Something is settling in his stomach - maybe it’s hope. Things are peaceful, and so is Grantaire, the cacophony of his mind quiet for once in the chilly night air warmed up by hundreds of bodies.

It’s long after midnight, the parisian night alive with the bustle of barricades and laughter of protestors, when Eponine’s radio broadcasts Daniel Cohn-Bendit saying,  _ We didn’t engage in negotiations; we said to the Rector: “What’s happening this evening in the streets is that an entire youth is expressing itself against a certain society. We said to him that in order for there not to be any spilling of blood it’s necessary that the police leave the Latin Quarter, and that as long as our three demands aren’t met we know that the demonstrators will remain behind their barricades. _

There’s a general cheer going up, just as Grantaire’s stomach drops. Even in the half light of illuminated night he can see the gleam in Enjolras’ eyes, sense the fervour in his friends’ demeanour.

The scent of his cigarette, almost burnt out, can’t mask the faint tang of iron at the back of Grantaire’s throat.

He laughs when the police start reading the riot act. No one else laughs.

The riot control forces star to advance with their shields raised and truncheons swinging, pushing the students and protestors away.  They don’t go easy; the human chain bends but doesn’t break.

Joly and Bossuet start to sing the Internationale, and soon everyone within earshot sings along. 

A man catches Grantaire’s eye as he pushes through the crowd, on his way towards the police. He’s noticeable, because he’s a good deal older than the average protestor - a teacher maybe, Grantaire’s mind supplies, but he has a hard time imagining this bulldog-like man with the stout neck and the bushy eyebrows having enough patience to teach anything. He has to be a worker, Grantaire thinks then. He plows through the protesters like a bulldozer, determined, and with his brown cap slanted oddly on his head, like it’s too small and not meant for his head.

At one point this man turns his head and looks, not at Grantaire, but at Enjolras, where he still stands on the barricade, shouting instructions to Courfeyrac. There is such hatred in his eyes that Grantaire can tell even from this distance, and something turns in his stomach.

The man produces something from his coat, and thanks to the small clearing his aggressive advance has made among the people, he has the opportunity to swing his hand back in a good thrower’s stance, and hurl an object towards the police.

Grantaire is mesmerized by the perfect trajectory, powerless to stop the object from making contact with a riot shield with such impact as to send cracks through the not-quite see through material. The object in question bounces and hits an officer’s  helmet with enough power to knock it askew, and then it explodes.

The fury spreads among the police forces with an almost palpable speed, and the human chain is broken apart with the use of rifle butts - Grantaire see several of the people, bleeding, being arrested and pushed or carried away by uniformed officers.

Feuilly grabs Grantaire by the collar and drags him over to the hoard of bricks, telling him he’s got the best aim out of all of them.

“We’re in for it now,” Feuilly informs him, grimly.

Grantaire agrees, but only after glancing at Enjolras, making his way through the crowd towards the man who threw the first stone, flanked by Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Grantaire is amazed he can even pick them out, in the madness that is the crowd of protesters.

He bends down to pick up a brick.

Grantaire straightens up, takes aim, and hurls the projectile towards a helmeted riot officer who is aiming a tear gas rifle at the crowd.

It’s not long until the air is so thick with tear gas that they have no choice but to retreat. By some miracle, Grantaire, Feuilly and Eponine manage to stick together in the chaos, and they even stumble across Joly and Combeferre behind another barricade, where they’ve set up a first aid station, to treat cuts and scrapes, eyes stinging from the gas,  and worse.

Things are manageable, because people have opened their windows to throw water on the protesters, which makes the air breathable and protects them from the tear gas. 

“The people did rise!” Bossuet shouts, where he’s fighting through the throng to make it to Joly and Combeferre. Grantaire feels a sting at the echo of Enjolras’ words, but at that moment he receives a bucketful from above, soaking him to the bone. He laughs and shakes his head like a dog, flinging droplets around to make Eponine chuckle in response.

In a stark shock against the cold water something like an explosion of heat hits Grantaire’s back, and he turns to see the night sky lit with a barricade in fire on the Boulevard St Michel. Grantaire hates himself for finding it beautiful.

When Enjolras appears, he’s like Mars himself, battle-marked and wild, eyes blazing with an inner fire. Courfeyrac is behind him, supporting Jehan, who is bleeding from a cut above his brow. He’s given to Combeferre’s tender ministrations, and Grantaire feels sick. 

He sits down haphazardly on the broken frame of a piano that makes up part of the barricade, resting his hands on the worn wood.

“The man who threw the Molotov cocktail at the police - he was police himself.” Enjolras tells Combeferre, wiping his brow with his sleeve and managing to stand tall even though he’s visibly tired.. 

With Bahorel arriving, soot-stained but grinning madly,  _ Les Amis _ are gathered again, and they turn towards Enjolras. Grantaire fingers his hip flask, wishing fervently for it to not be empty.

“I didn’t want violence,” Enjolras says, voice low but clearly heard even over the hubbub around them. “But they clearly did, and now violence is the only way. We have to protect the barricades.”

There are no cheers, but they all nod firmly in acquiescence, their determination settling heavily. Grantaire raises his empty hip flask in a mock toast.

~*~

It feels like a lifetime they’ve been fighting, but the sound of church bells make their way into Grantaire’s hazy mind - four a.m - and it hasn’t been more than an hour since they congregated at Joly and Combeferre´s impromptu first aid station.

Bahorel was the first to be arrested, wrestled down by two helmeted CRS men, while he fought them bravely to let the rest of them escape from the barricade at Rue Gay Lussac.

By some kind of unbelievable coincidence, Marius Pontmercy finds them when they are about to abandon yet another barricade, the police forces forcing them back time and time again. He ushers them towards a building, saying,

“This is where Cosette lives!” he informs them in an urgent whisper. “She says she’ll harbour you, help you onto the roof. People are fighting from there too!”

Marius would not have been able to lead them to temporary safety, if Eponine hadn’t thrown herself at the uniformed man who raised a truncheon against him. She had kicked him and hit him and scratched him with her short nails, but another dragged her off, and together they had her arrested. Grantaire would never forget the sound of the bone snapping in her arm as the police officer bent it too far in an attempt to cuff her.

Combeferre tried to help her, but he was arrested too. Bossuet took a truncheon to the head, and Joly rushed to his side to make sure he wasn’t trampled, and they were taken too. There was nothing the rest of them could do.

Instead they follow Marius into a building, and Cosette, a beautiful girl with light brown hair and huge eyes gleaming with steely determination at odds with her diminutive appearance, throws open her apartment door and ushers them in.

“We need to make more Molotov cocktails,” Courfeyrac says, his mouth set in an uncharacteristically grim line. Cosette nods and tells them to feel free to use anything they can find.

Grantaire takes her word for it, and with unnerving accuracy manages to find the liquor cabinet almost instantly. He hands over the vodka and other clear alcohol to Courfeyrac and Feuilly, but smuggles a small bottle of cognac into his pocket. Under the pretense of finding the bathroom, Grantaire hides in it, and uncorks the bottle with shaking hands.

He takes a grateful swig, the burning alcohol stinging his palate and settling his stomach.

He almost chokes on the second gulp, because he hears the door being broken up by heavy boots. He hears Courfeyrac tell Marius and Cosette to get away while they can, and then Jehan’s yelp of pain, and Feuilly swearing colorfully enough to strip the paint from the walls.

Grantaire hates himself, but he stays pressed against the cold tiles of the bathroom wall until the noises have abated, undecipherable amidst the thundering of Grantaire’s pulse in his ears.

The bottle of cognac slips from his hand and crash to the floor in a cascade of glistening shards, spreading the amber liquid in droplets to pool on the floor. Grantaire barely flinches.

He heard them being arrested; he heard them being dragged out, but he hadn’t heard Enjolras. Enjolras would not have been silent. Only death would silence him, this Grantaire knows.

Silently, breathless and on his tiptoes, Grantaire makes his way out into the apartment - he notes the cozy decor and realizes there are two people living here by the shoes in the foyer before he notices that the door to the balcony is thrown wide open, the wind bringing in the smell of smoke and gas.

Grantaire walks out to the balcony as if in a dream, the oddly thick curtains stroking him as he passes. The balcony is thin, with a white railing; typically parisian, on the topmost floor, and Grantaire grips that white railing and cranes his neck to look up.

The sky is dark, clouds blotting out the stars, but Grantaire cannot think that dawn is too far off.

A sound from the roof makes Grantaire startle. He notices the iron ladderwork by the railing, and before he can think too much about it, he swings over the balcony to grip the cold metal and clamber up.

He heaves himself onto the roof, head swimming with exhaustion and intoxication. His arrival is not noticed - he notices, however, the band of four CRS men with their rifles trained on Enjolras, standing by the far end of the roof.

An unlit Molotov cocktail is in his raised hand. There is a streak of dirt on his cheek, and his trousers are torn at the knees. Grantaire senses more than sees his expression of utter defiance.

“Hold up!” Grantaire finds himself shouting, and to his amazement the rifles shudder and rise, pointing to the smoke-filled sky instead of at Enjolras.

“I’m with him,” Grantaire says, walking past the shivering rifles. No one stops him. He half-turns and give the closest armed man a wink. “Long live the people.”

Then he’s beside Enjolras, searching his eyes.

“Will you let me?” Grantaire asks, somewhat nonsensically. Maybe he’s too late for the revolution; maybe Enjolras will reject him in this as he has rejected Grantaire before.

But Enjolras smiles, and reaches out his hand.

“Yes,” he says, and as Grantaire laces his fingers with Enjolras’, he can feel the universe slotting into place. This is not only where Grantaire is supposed to be, it’s also where Enjolras is supposed to be, and the feeling threatens to overwhelm him.

This is of course before they’re brutally forced apart by armoured policemen - Grantaire is pretty sure something tears in his leg when someone viciously kicks him in the back of the knee to force him down. But he can hear Enjolras tell them about citizen rights and police brutality even while his arms are forced behind his back to be cuffed, so Grantaire smiles and musters the energy to spit one of his captors in the face.

The answering rifle butt to his temple does not knock him out but it does make stars dance before his eyes and the world wobble alarmingly around him as they’re hauled down from the roof.

Enjolras presses himself against Grantaire the entire ride in the police van, and Grantaire thinks that the world has righted itself.


	3. coup d’état

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue from Enjolras' POV

Enjolras is no stranger to being arrested - it’s one of the main reasons he and his parents don’t talk anymore. His record.

Enjolras doesn’t care that he’s being arrested, he cares that Grantaire is.

Grantaire is in the same cell as he, but the rest of the people are strangers, and Enjolras doesn’t know where the rest of  _ Les Amis _ is. It worries him a little, but he also realizes there is nothing he can do about it.

“What about your scholarship?” he asks Grantaire with a heavy heart. He never expected Grantaire to actually come, to actually put himself on the line. Grantaire had never been convinced by their ideals, why would he be swayed now?

Grantaire looks up from where he’s slumped against the whitewashed wall of the cell. His black curls fall into his eyes as he gives Enjolras a lopsided grin, the one that always makes Enjolras’ stomach swoop.

For so long Enjolras had assumed the swoop to be anger - anger he could handle. This, he wasn’t so sure.

“You forget, Apollo,” Grantaire says, and the derisive nickname doesn’t grate so much anymore. “Art is dead, and not even Godard can do anything about it. So what future would I, a hapless artist by name, have anyway.”

Enjolras is not in the habit of accepting defeat. If Grantaire wants to quote slogans, Enjolras can do it too.

“Art may be dead, but we don’t have to consume its corpse,” he says and kneels before Grantaire to better meet his eyes.

Grantaire throws his head back, laughing, and Enjolras is flooded by an urge to kiss Grantaire’s exposed throat.

Of all the things to do in a holding cell, it might be the dumbest and most dangerous, so Enjolras settles for touching the tips of his fingers to Grantaire’s shoulder instead.

“I like it when you laugh,” Enjolras says. It’s true; at least for the times Grantaire laughs out of joy, not irony or self-doubt. 

Grantaire thumps his head gently against the wall, regarding Enjolras with a warmth he hasn’t before (or did Enjolras just never notice before?)

“If only there were things to laugh about,” Grantaire sighs and looks around, the quirk to the corner of his mouth revealing the seriousness of his tone to be a mockery.

Enjolras sighs and pushes a hand through his hair - it’s a dirty mess, he knows, and he can’t even imagine when he’ll have time to wash it. 

Grantaire can’t seem to take anything Enjolras says seriously, and that irritates Enjolras on a level he can’t even describe. But he saw the fierce earnestness in Grantaire’s eyes on that roof when he reached out his hand; Enjolras would swear on his life that Grantaire was serious then.

And the repercussions will be serious; in this cell it’s difficult to imagine that their revolution has been successful - the student uprising has been squashed by military-like police force, and the sheer unfairness of it is eating away at Enjolras.

He puts his back to the wall and slides down beside Grantaire, his shoulders hunching into a desolate slump.

“Hey,” Grantaire says, his arm coming down from where it’s been placed on his knees. His fingers come to rest against Enjolras’ thigh; an inconspicuous point of contact, but the heat of his fingertips seem to burn into Enjolras’ skin. “It’s going to be alright.”

Enjolras gives Grantaire a watery smile.

“I’m the one who’s supposed to tell you that,” he says. “I was supposed to be the fearless leader, as you’re so fond of pointing out.”

Enjolras sighs then, raises his knees so Grantaire’s hand become dislodged, and crosses his arms atop them to bury his face in the crook of his elbow.

“We don’t follow you because you always know what to do, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras isn’t looking at his face but he thinks his voice is kind.

He chances a peek over his elbow.

Grantaire is looking at him with a smile, the shadows under his eyes pronounced by the harsh, unforgiving light of the cell. The world narrows down to the two of them; the other inhabitants of the cell and the stench of unwashed people forgotten. The noises of a police station in uproar seems to melt away.

“We follow you because you believe, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, his pale eyes warm. “Whatever else, you believe in what we’re doing, even when the rest of the world doesn’t.”

 

In the general chaos following the massive protests, and in some part to the continued protests, most of the arrested are let go without any repercussions.

Enjolras feels elated, giddy with the knowledge that they made it. All of  _ Les Amis _ gather, as if by instinct, back at the Musain, where they slap each other on the back, retelling what happened to them in booming voices, like they’d been to war.

And in a way they have, Enjolras thinks, watching them all fondly as they reminisce, so grateful that they’re still alive and well, even Eponine with her arm in a cast, and Jehan, who will show the cut on his chin to anyone who asks.

His eyes snag on Grantaire, who is pushing a hand through his unruly black curls. Grantaire notices, and gives Enjolras a little wink. Enjolras’ cheeks heat up.

He has no idea how to handle what has sprung up between them; the thing that feels too much like a sort of love Enjolras is unfamiliar with, so he does what he always has.

He calls for action.

“The Sorbonne is reopened and all arrested are free,” he says. “But we cannot think our work - our war - is over. This is the time to keep going.”

They seize the Sorbonne, declaring it a people’s university, and Feuilly’s eyes gleam with pride, Jehan’s laugh echoes in the corridors of the esteemed seat of knowledge, and Combeferre reunites with the library with a relieved sigh, and Enjolras is happy for a short period of time.

But, much like Grantaire had predicted, the people turn their backs on the revolution. Public opinion changes from supporting the ones fighting against oppression to thinking that the leaders of the movement behaved like irresponsible utopianists, and Enjolras wants to tear out his hair and scream.

Scream at the people, scream at the leaders who squandered the opportunity they had been given, and for the first time in his life, Enjolras feels helpless.

“How do you do it,” he asks Grantaire, when they sit at the Corinthe in a quiet corner. Grantaire wraps his lips around the mouth of a green bottle as he has wrapped his fingers around Enjolras’ wrist.

“Do what?” Grantaire asks after settling the bottle down, and Enjolras marvels at the ease with which laughter can inflect his tone without prompting.

“How do you keep going if you don’t believe?” Enjolras asks, before he can stop himself. Grantaire halts - freezes, with his back straightened. His eyes don’t stray from Enjolras’.

“I believe in you,” he says softly, at last, and this time, Enjolras thinks he can believe it. He turns his hand on the table palm up, reveling in the feeling of the pulse in his wrist thudding against Grantaire’s blunt fingertips.

“But we failed,” Enjolras says, looking down where skin meets skin. “I failed. There was no revolution. Nothing has changed, in the end.”

Grantaire lifts his hand to push his fingers through Enjolras’ on the table.

“I think you’re wrong, Apollo,” Grantaire says, his voice still soft, and something tugs at Enjolras’ heart. He finally manages to meet Grantaire’s eyes.

“I think you’re wrong,” he repeats. “We didn’t overthrow the government, but things have changed. Things will change. ”

Enjolras lifts Grantaire’s hand to his mouth and presses lips to his knuckles, scarred from boxing.

“Come on,” Grantaire says, tugging at Enjolras’ hand. He doesn’t let go, and neither does Enjolras, all the way to Grantaire’s apartment.

The blood is rushing in Enjolras’ ears like it had on the barricades - heat pooling in his stomach, everything in a too-clear focus. Instead of noting the masked riot officers raising their tear gas cannons he notes the way the light bounces off Grantaire’s oily black curls, how his almost too-pale eyes glimmer when they look his way, the slight smile playing at the edge of Grantaire’s crooked, wide mouth.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras says, starting to laugh as Grantaire pushes him into the bare brick wall living room of his small apartment. But the laughter catches in his throat as his eyes fall upon the canvas leaning on the far wall.

When he last visited - and the blood rises high on his cheeks when he remembers his last visit to Grantaire’s apartment in what seems a lifetime ago - this was an empty canvas.

Now t’s a depiction of him - it must be - his blonde hair boldly painted with yellow and gold strokes, his military coat a stark red that it isn’t, not really.

The face is made with fine but definite lines, his eyes dark, and he stands legs wide astride a barricade, hand raised much like Delacroix’s Liberty leading the people - and now Enjolras can see that there are people in the background, vague and unfocused, like the letters behind the depiction of him, spelling:  _ Plus je fais l'amour, plus j'ai envie de faire la révolution. Plus je fais la révolution, plus j'ai envie de faire l'amour.  _

“Grantaire,” Enjolras breathes, reaching out a hand towards the painting. He can’t quite believe it’s real, he can’t believe anyone, much less Grantaire, has spent a painstaking amount of time to capture his likeness so perfectly. It makes him too aware of himself.

“I just... I wanted to show you,” Grantaire mumbles, and the uncertainty in his voice makes a fresh sort of anger surge through Enjolras. He turns and grabs Grantaire by the elbows, stepping close so that Grantaire has no choice but to look at him.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, but finds that words fail him, and so he leans forward, tentatively, to let his lips meet Grantaire’s in a kiss so gentle it makes a shiver run through him.

Enjolras has never experienced such a loss of control, as when he gets to touch Grantaire. His hands come up as of their own volition, pushing Grantaire’s shirt up the sides, warm skin inviting under his fingertips. Grantaire goes pliant, tilting his head to allow Enjolras better access when Enjolras needs to kiss his neck.

“I don’t want to stop touching you,” Enjolras murmurs into his collarbone, the words making Grantaire shudder. His fingers, his blunt but clever fingers, curl in Enjolras shirt with a fierceness that sparks heat in the bottom of Enjolras’s stomach.

Emboldened, Enjolras slips his fingers under the lining of Grantaire’s trousers, pressing closer as he feels Grantaire’s buttocks flex under his palms.

“Don’t stop touching me, then,” Grantaire says, with his usual flippant tone somewhat lessened by the breathy harshness of his voice.

“I don’t understand you,” Enjolras says as they push each other towards the bed, impatiently ridding each other of clothes in the process. “I don’t understand you, but I want to spend the rest of my life trying to.”

Grantaire laughs, but digs his fingers into the muscle of Enjolras’ back in a way that makes Enjolras’ knees weak.

“You have much better things to do with your time, Enjolras,” he says, not unkindly. Enjolras will admit that his brain is addled with lust, but there’s an unusual urgency underlining it, and he captures Grantaire’s mouth in a bruising kiss as they fall to the bed.

“No,” he says, even though he kind of agrees with Grantaire this time. He knows there are more important things to do, but nothing that feels quite so urgent as convincing Grantaire. “Make love to me and maybe I can make you understand how important you are.”

Grantaire gives a choked noise, but, as Enjolras is slowly coming to understand, it is beyond Grantaire’s power to deny Enjolras anything. And when Grantaire pushes into him, their bodies slick with sweat and breath coming in harsh pants as they have worked themselves into a frenzy, Enjolras grabs Grantaire’s shoulders, thumbs on his throat, to steady himself.

“I,” Enjolras starts, but has no idea how to continue. He gazes helplessly into Grantaire’s eyes, the pale blue of them almost invisible from the blackness of his pupils.

“Tell me,” Grantaire says, leaning down to press a kiss to Enjolras’ lips before lifting his gaze back to his eyes.

“I believe in love,” Enjolras says, echoing Grantaire from long ago, and the smile that breaks out on Grantaire’s face makes Enjolras’ heart soar.


End file.
